


Distorted Dystopia

by Hyoushin



Series: Side Effect [3]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cannibalism, Cheesiness, Ghoul!Amon, Headcanon, Human Experimentation, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Out of Character, Sasaki Haise Is Kaneki Ken, Sorry Not Sorry, Weird Established Relationship, Weirdness, tokyo ghoul re
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 12:02:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2651327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyoushin/pseuds/Hyoushin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His scent was everywhere.<br/>Inside his apartment.<br/>Sasaki was here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distorted Dystopia

**Author's Note:**

> For now, this is the last part, that is if I don't come up with any more ideas.  
> I tried to write fluff, and other stuff I just wanted to write.  
> The result wasn't one I initially expected but well, I did what I wanted. :D 
> 
> Grammar mistakes, ooc-ness, etc. I'm sorry. When I visit grammar websites it makes me want to tear all my fics apart. :S
> 
> Thanks a lot for reading!

His scent was everywhere.

Inside his apartment.

Sasaki was here.

Koutarou saw him, dozing on the couch, with his quaint round glasses on, and a thick book laying atop his chest like a badly propped tent. The sight didn’t surprised him. His quirks, his hobbies, his voice, his speech, he was more than acquainted with all the superficial details after having been his partner for about three years. Even if Sasaki’s main duties were now with the newly formed Quinx Squad, he still took it upon himself to check on him regularly. He didn’t protest, there was no point in doing so, Sasaki could be surprisingly stubborn.

In truth, he didn’t want to be paired with anyone else; in that aspect misfortune seemed to chase him sometimes.

 _“Stop doing everything on your own.”_ Sasaki once had said.

That kind of advice wasn’t easy to follow. Sasaki knew that too. He seemed to know many things, in fact. Consciously or not. Koutarou hadn’t told him that, at times, when he caught him unguarded, his eyes held an old and profound sadness; or that he had an empty look on his face, as if trying to grasp, within his mind, for something far out of his reach. Small and hidden details like those were difficult to discover, but were much more significant than anything else. They revealed a part of what his partner would prefer to keep quiet. Or maybe, they spoke about things of which he wouldn’t know how to express.

Sasaki gave him the impression that he was standing on an icy surface, ready to crack at any given moment.

_Black-white-gray_

_He_ resurfaced in the midst of his wandering thoughts.

“Amon-san?” Sasaki was waking up, rubbing his half lidded eyes behind the crooked glasses perched on his nose.

Unexpectedly, an image (of Kaneki) superimposed Sasaki’s appearance. It looked as if _his_ image was impressing itself upon a blank canvas, painting it with irregular strokes. Koutarou resisted the urge to shake his head; this illusion had happened many times before, yet the eerie quality of it never waned.

“I fell asleep waiting for you. I cooked—have you eaten?” His gray gaze didn’t miss the telling way in which the man stiffened. Sasaki smiled. “I’ll take that as a no. The side-effects?”  

Sasaki made room for him on the couch, drawing his legs to himself.

“It’s fine.” Koutarou said, sitting down. “I’m fine.”

“No. You’re not and we both know that. I’ve told you, haven’t I? You don’t need to hide it from me.” He was taking his t-shirt off, and Koutarou watched him, sighing quietly; knowing already where this was going to lead them. It wouldn’t be the first time, but Koutarou would feel ashamed anyway, about the way his body would react to _this_ , and to _him_.

“And you don’t need to do this. I can…ask for a stronger dose.” Koutarou said. Inside him, the ever-present ache gained intensity. The scent wafting out from him had been stirring his now painful hunger.

“That drug only staves off the hunger. It’d work perfectly for you if it actually did something against the pain.” Sasaki was determined to go through with this, as he had been since the start. “Do I really have to ask you to let me help you?” His tone was soft and patient, as if he was admonishing a willful child. Sasaki took the collar of his shirt, gently pulling it. Koutarou stared at him, noting that his eyes weren’t the usual dim gray, but a striking vivid silver.

Koutarou was reminded of _him_.

(Kaneki)

Pushing Koutarou towards the backrest of the couch, Sasaki sat on his lap and slid his arms around his neck, all in one easy and graceful movement. “Do it.” He muttered. _Eat_ , was the unspoken word.

The sudden weight on his thighs evoked a baffling sense of déjà vu. Then, a misty memory shot into his brain, remembering wild white hair, waves of mind-numbing pain, lips upon his—a brief and bloody caress.

Koutarou inhaled deeply, the fragrant skin made the pain almost excruciating, even so, he welcomed the convenient distraction. His left eye morphed; veins etched themselves. His hands moved by instinct, grasping his partner’s hips. He let the hunger to take over, and sank his teeth into Sasaki’s shoulder. A deep groan of delight resounded through his throat; he couldn’t deny he had been craving this distinct delicious flavor.

He slowly chewed, savoring the succulent slice of flesh he had torn away from him. He could feel the front of his trousers tightening, a familiar desire peeking through. The chance to withdraw, before the situation could take on a heated hue, was right there should he decide to grab it. Although it also wouldn’t be the first time, if he let that tempting burning impulse to control his actions. He swallowed bit by bit the rest of it, looking at the open wound sewing itself, and the crimson tracks marking a smooth bare chest.

“Sasaki—” He soon forgot what he was going to say, Sasaki had cradled his head in the palms of his hands. In the dark, his eyes glowed silver and red with unabashed want. They gazed at each other, both sensing a throbbing raw _need_ hanging in between them. Koutarou’s arms encircled his waist, pressing the warm body against his. Realizing that whatever this was, he didn’t want to put a stop to it.

 

The pain was subsiding.

 

* * *

 

Dry lakes of blood stained the pavement. A stench of death settled on the air. Mangled corpses, intact or not, were strewn all over the place, several had bones poking out of their cold, pallid skins. Severed legs, arms, and heads, were here and there, decorating the scene, adding a final gruesome touch.

Amid the countless lives that had been taken that night, in the twentieth ward, small teams had been instructed to look for survivors. One of those teams found someone. A tall man with a missing arm. His chest was still rising, his pulse was drumming a faint song against hopeful fingers.

“He’s still alive!” yelled a short man in his mid-forties, the leader of team c. He had been doing this for so long, had seen too much, that he had become desensitized to such carnage. Not everyone could have this as a living and remain sane, he agreed, but in his case, he had to put food on the table. A daughter and a wife were waiting for him at home; even though he wouldn’t be going home tonight, his job was far from over.

He checked his pulse again, “hang in there man, don’t die on us, they’ll treat you right away.”

“Besides,” the man said, as the rest of his team drew near to them, “there must be a reason why you haven’t kicked the bucket yet.”

With the body on a stretcher, they pulled him out of the field that belonged to the dead.

 

* * *

 

From the darkness came a gradual flow of languid consciousness. He saw dizzying white blotches. His ears picked up a distant murmur. As if blocks of concrete were sitting on his eyes, he hauled his eyelids up so he could avoid dropping off. There was an urgency that shouted at him: you’ve slept long enough.

He blinked several times, trying to clear his sight somewhat. He shifted his head around, glancing at the white walls that surrounded him. There were no windows. The beeping machines, all the long cords connected to his body, supplying him with life, and the pungent smell of cleanliness, of sterility, described his current residence. A hospital? Probably.

A timeworn marionette, bright colors faded, wooden limbs cracked, strings thin and delicate; his body felt like that and maybe he looked like that, pathetic, feeble and useless. Moreover, he felt as if a handful of sand was stuck in his throat, and his tongue was replaced by a piece of sandpaper. He would give anything right now for a glass of cool water to alleviate the itching dryness in his mouth.

He tried to recall the last thing that had happened to him, but he heard loud gasps. His attention moved to the two nurses who wore shocked expressions on their faces, and were standing, petrified, beside the opened door of the room, one of them had their hand on the knob. It seemed they had been about to leave.

Before he could speak and ask them in which hospital he was in, or how long he had been in here, the women turned on their heel, closing the door with haste and—was that really fear?

In a few minutes, the higher-ups, researchers, and the medical staff of the CCG’s Experimental Facility would know _test subject-zero_ was no longer in a state of coma.

Their artificial hybrid had awakened.

 

* * *

 

“We are going to be frank with you, genetically speaking, the constitution of every human being is different. Therefore, we didn’t know what could possibly be the outcome of the transplant. However, risks were taken, since we did this to save you. I’m not going to sugarcoat it, sir, your wounds were fatal. If we hadn’t done this procedure, you would’ve died.”

He was not human. Not completely.

Even though he knew he couldn’t escape from reality, he wished none of this were real.

He felt hollow. Wishes were useless.

“A coma was the closest term we could find to describe your previous condition, but it wasn’t one in the strict sense of the word. After the operation, your body adapted to the change incredibly well while you were in a dormant state. We were truly perplexed and we still are.”

Their voices were an irritating buzz in his ears.

In this moment, all of them looked like devils clad in white, their claws concealed behind their clipboards.

The objectives they weren’t disclosing, the results they were hoping for, the orders they were following: in the convoluted script they were acting out this was just an experiment, but was he the first? He didn’t think so. What about the others that wouldn’t make it? Perhaps, they were better off without waking up at all. Who wanted to be a monster?

Black. White. Gray. The blurred grainy image of a young man flashed through his mind. (Aren’t we alike? They did to me, what had been done to you. What do you think about that? I feel like someone’s jeering at us. Are you even alive?)

A hint of a humorless smile stirred the corners of his mouth.

“It’s amazing actually, a year has passed and the rehabilitation you may need is minimal, your body didn’t deteriorate as we were expecting and you’ve retained all of your faculties. You’ll undergo tests throughout the next year, we need to make brain scans, physical and psychological examinations, but given that you’re stable we’ll prioritize the analysis of your RC Level, and your RC type so we can determine if the implanted organ has—”

If he had been asked for his opinion on the matter, he would have said: let me die. If the price for returning from the threshold of death was to become into the _thing_ he detested the most, then, why wasn’t he dead?

Deceiving himself into thinking he would rather be dead, he snubbed the heavy feeling of relief at being alive that had seized him. He had been close to an honorable death by battling the enemy till the bitter end, and so, he wasn’t prepared to make the disgusting admission: he had wanted to live. Desperately. To live even if it meant turning into the monster he had been fearing and fighting against.

According to them, he had been turned to save him from an untimely end. If there was a grain of truth in those words, would have made the fact they had _tampered_ with his body less sour? No. Never. What they had done cannot be diluted. Nothing, absolutely nothing would change that fact. He wanted to try, but he couldn’t swallow the sweet lies that hid the rotten truth.

He would have to lower his head, because what other choice did he have?

They gave him the chance to live.

Amon Koutarou was alive.

As a human (investigator), however, he was dead.

 

* * *

 

Koutarou was struck by all the changes.

To begin with, all of his senses were heightened. He could hear, see, and smell to a degree not possible for humans. His eyes could detect small, subtle movements in settings with poor lighting; hear low-frequency sounds (if he concentrated) a human ear wouldn’t be able to; and last but not least, his sense of smell. As a half ghoul people usually smelled nice to him. The smells could be similar, but were never the same. He found out every human had a different one, and he could even identify people by their smell.

And another curious fact was, all of them arouse his hunger, but some seemed to inflame it.

Was it mere personal taste? Or was there an unknown biological pattern?

(Koutarou hadn’t ever inquired about the composition of the reddish—or crimson or cherry colored—liquid they were giving him as food. Sometimes, it would have an insipid taste, a mildly pleasant one, or it would be downright repulsive. The consistency would change as well, it would be like syrup, milk, water or an odd undistinguishable mixture. It would half-quell the agonizing hunger, or it would worsen it.)

Either way, in his opinion, that was the most terrible enhancement. The researchers, on the other hand, were positively thrilled.

They proceeded to test his strength, reflexes, and endurance with sickening eagerness. It was strange though, his kagune hadn’t been examined (yet). He supposed he must have one now, it was impossible not to. He didn’t even know what type it was (whose kakuhou had been implanted in him? He would now and again think about that. But he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer).

Almost a year and a half had gone by since the battle in the twentieth ward had occurred, Koutarou reminded himself. He had been transferred to a bigger (cell) room, and alone with nothing else to do, than to train or wait for the next test they had in store for him, he kept thinking about his previous team, about all the people he had known. Where were they? Were they well? He had inquired after them on two occasions, but the information had always been denied to him. Why? The researchers had been weary of a possible mental unbalance (which was absurd). They had worded it differently, but he had gottten something along those lines every time.

Koutarou suspected they were conducting a prolonged psychological-behavioral study. After four months under continuous scrutiny, and going along with the routine they had set, he had accepted (with the utmost aversion) his current status as an experiment. They had turned him into a half ghoul and hadn’t disposed of him for a reason. He supposed they were testing him, to ascertain if he could be employed once again with his new physical condition. Thus, Koutarou had resolved to give them the results they wanted. He wouldn’t able to unearth what was the CCG hiding from view (at this point, he was certain they were), if he was forever confined in this (cell) room.

Tomorrow morning, Koutarou would be thoroughly surprised when one of the researchers told him they would send in someone, an investigator, to relay the information he had requested a while ago, and also, to train him during the rest of the year.

He would meet Rank Two Investigator, Sasaki Haise.

 

* * *

 

Koutarou thought he should get up from the bed, and have a shower. The report on the recon mission in the third ward wasn’t going to write itself, but today was Sunday and that was good; since the warmth constantly flowing out of the resting body beside him made him motionless. With his head on Koutarou’s chest, he kept stroking his gray hair shot with black (and white). The sun was pouring its persistent light into the bedroom, passing through translucent curtains, and Koutarou eyed the pale yellow rays that delineated his partner's well-defined back. The other half of his beautiful figure was being covered by a dark blue blanket.

“I’m sorry.”

Had they been in a bustling place, his nearly inaudible words would have been completely muted. They had been wrapped in a weak whisper.

Did Sasaki even realize he uttered something? As if he was lost in a trance, he continued on caressing the web of faint white lines upon his left shoulder. Abruptly, he looked up at him, and smiled. It was a fond and tender smile, accompanied by sparkling silver eyes that lit up his face. Koutarou was stunned. It was a captivating sight.

“Thank you.”

Sasaki’s voice was low, but his gratitude was loud and clear. He seemed to be aware of what he was saying now. Koutarou still wasn’t entirely convinced though.

Moving slowly, Sasaki kissed his right shoulder, then the left one. “I don’t know….” Sasaki said, as an answer to Koutarou’s silent yet evident question. “I just—wanted to say that. The pain—are you ok, _Koutarou_ -san?”

_Black-white-gray_

Koutarou answered by nodding his head in affirmation; for some reason, he didn’t trust his voice to come out right. Though he didn’t bother to mentally dispel the image (illusion) he now saw before him: it was Kaneki (Sasaki) leaning forward to join their lips together.  

Honestly, he really was all right (as long as he had him by his side).

He really hoped Haise (Ken) was all right too.

 

The pain had subsided.

 

 

 

 


End file.
